Excerpt from My Memoir: Return to the Emergency Room, Part Two

12:00 p.m. An entourage of Neurologists appeared at my bedside. There were so many that I couldn’t count them all; they took up half the room. Included with the pack: the man I had seen earlier and another woman who had treated me in August. She commented that she was glad to see me making such a great recovery. The last time she saw me I had been unable to talk. This was absolutely what I needed to hear right now. The head of the pack was Dr. Cho, who inquired if anyone had spoken to me about Botox injections in my legs. I said I’d prefer it on my eyes, like a normal person. She then uttered the most beautiful words in the world: “You can go home; all the tests came back normal.” It was music to my ears. I love my apartment and will do whatever is necessary to remain there. I couldn’t help flashing back to when POD gave away my apartment. I will not let that happen. Ever again. After checking my insurance, Dr. Cho said she will be seeking pre-approval for the injections from Oxford. Good luck with that! I’ll be lucky if they approve this emergency room visit and the ambulance. They have previously declined some of my emergency room visits and ambulance trips, claiming it was not an emergency. They sent a questionnaire to my physical and occupational therapists which contained the queen mother of all time stupid questions: “How is your health?” If there is a hall of fame for stupid questions, Oxford is leading the pack. F*cking Oxford. I’m going to ask Dr. Greenwald about the Botox injections when I see him on Wednesday. *************************************************************************** 1:00 p.m. I still had not peed. I had to have a catheter inserted. Guess who had to do it. “Are you sure you can’t walk to the bathroom?” “Had you bothered to glance at my chart, you’d know the answer to that brilliant question.” “You said you could walk to the bathroom at home.” “I’m not at home. The nearest bathroom is miles away. My bathroom at home is within inches of my wheelchair. Besides, I need my cane. I was too busy being rushed to the hospital to bring it.” “I can give you a cane.” “I’d need a quad cane. If I was able to walk, which I’m not.” “I don’t have a quad cane.” “I’m here because my entire right side is as useless as this conversation. I can’t move my entire right side. How am I supposed to walk? Where did you graduate from charm school? Are you really a nurse?” After two very painful attempts, the catheter was finally inserted. She complained that it was too dark. I almost said, “It’s your mood that’s too dark.” But I stopped myself, considering what she was doing. I was already in pain. My hoo-hah hurt for hours after the catheter was removed. I’m lucky she didn’t castrate me. 1:15 p.m. The attending doctor came around to speak to me. I told her that I’d already seen the neurologists who said I was being discharged. She prepared the paperwork. She said they would arrange an ambulette for my trip home. I decided to wait until Clara, my home health aide, arrived. I had told her to stop at my apartment, pick up my wheelchair, and call the car service. I guess I didn’t make myself clear enough. You try to be clear at 4:30 in the morning, calling from the emergency room. I guess it’s impossible. I was very glad to see Clara. She’s the first person I called. She’s the one person on whom I can depend. Clara arrived, sans wheelchair and car service. I had to rely on the ambulette. My favorite nurse from Hell returned to cross examine me. “Didn’t you cancel the transportation?” “My plans changed. I don’t owe you an explanation. Just make the arrangements so I can get the heck out of here. Am I going home with the i.v. in my arm?” Of course, she forgot to remove the i.v. ************************************************************************* 3:30 p.m. The ambulette finally arrived. There’s nothing like waiting two hours for a ride that takes less than fifteen minutes. Thank heavens Clara was there to quiet me down; they probably would have thrown me out of the emergency room for my abominable behavior. Or arrested me for murdering Cruella (I could have successfully used justifiable homicide as a defense. For the record, that was a joke. Having to spend thirteen hours in the emergency room was as close to prison as I intend to get.) Not that I didn’t misbehave, or give them anything they didn’t deserve. My behavior would have been much worse if Clara hadn’t been there. It was comforting to have someone there to care about me; to put my pants back on; to put my leg brace back properly. 4:10 p.m. Arrived home. I would have kissed the ground if I had been able to do so. Clara put me in the shower because I’d peed myself. She was late for work. I gave her extra money this week because of her generosity of spirit. I’d have given her more, if I had it to give. Some nurses are only in it for the money. They might think that they are fooling people, but they’re not. These people should be fired; they should screen them out before they admit them into nursing school. Cruella is a shining example of this type of individual. I hope she has to go to the emergency room and is treated by the mirror image of herself. Karma is a bitch. Clara is the exact opposite; she is the nurse you are lucky to get. She actually likes to help people. She’s kind, competent and personable. She truly cares. I bless the day I met her. I hope to make her a part of my life forever. 6:00 p.m. Fell asleep in wheelchair until 2:00 a.m. When I got into bed, I thanked God for letting me go home. Looking back on the experience, I learned that it’s better to be unconscious in the emergency room. I’m reminded of the old joke about people who don’t have very long to live: they should do something that bores them to tears so they’ll feel like they have more time. My time in emergency seemed like a lifetime. That thirteen hours seemed like thirteen centuries; it was as though time had stopped. I never want to go through that experience again. On the other hand, it provided a gold mine of material. Maybe someday soon, I’ll laugh (after my butt heals. . .it’s Saturday and it’s still sore).

Excerpt from My Memoir: Return to the Emergency Room, Part One

Late Tuesday night (actually early Wednesday morning) when I got into bed, my entire right side went straight as a board. I was terrified, fearing that I was having another stroke. I had no choice but to call 911. Two paramedics arrived with a member of Manhattan’s finest (police officer). They asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. I didn’t want to go (who in their right mind does)? but I figured I’d better, just in case. . . I arrived at the Mt. Sinai emergency room at 2:30 a.m. I quickly figured out that this was going to be a nightmare. When I had the stroke I was seen immediately and had lapsed into unconsciousness before things became really bad. It’s easier to be unconscious than to face the ordeal of being trapped for thirteen hours in a packed emergency room. They did a cat scan and took enough blood from me to feed a dozen vampires. The attending (doctor) referred me to a neurologist. Coincidentally, the neurologist was the same one who initially saw me in August. He said the cat scan showed a big scar where the aneurism had been, but (thank God) I didn’t have another stroke. He explained that I was still in danger of having a seizure until the scar healed. (Note to self: Must get job so I can afford to keep taking very expensive anti-seizure drug.) He said he was pleased to see me recovering so nicely. This was encouraging; I was terrified that my diagnosis of “spasticity” would undo all the goals I had accomplished. He wrote a prescription for a muscle relaxer and said I wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while; they had to wait and see if the prescription worked and for the results of the remaining blood tests. I might have to be admitted to the hospital. It all depended on the test results. In the interim, I had to pee twice. I hadn’t had anything to drink; I guess it was nerves. I was lucky enough to have a male nurse called Darwin who cared. He hadn’t stabbed me to death when he took (most of) my blood. He brought me the bedpan. For the first time ever, I was able to use it. It usually hurts my ass so much that I’m unable to go. The expression “royal pain in the ass” was coined when a queen was asked to use a bedpan. It was impossible not to overhear bits of conversation; we were practically piled on top of one another. One man asked if this was a detox center. Another was the poster child from that “scare people into not smoking” ad campaign; he had no legs, and only one arm with which he used to drive his motorized wheelchair. He kept leaving the e/r to have a cigarette. While he was outside, he kept trying to hit on unsuspecting women. (I saw the unsuspecting women while I was being loaded onto the ambulette thirteen hours later. If I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t have believed it.) When he returned to the emergency room, he began to curse and moan. They put me with the mental patients. Across from me was a manic depressive woman looking to refill her prescription. She told her story to a lazy hospital transporter who pretended to listen but was really fast asleep. They paged him repeatedly, but he ignored the pages. She was from California. She had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. She mumbled something like “I hate Kennedy”. If I didn’t feel so awful, I would have asked her which Kennedy she hated and why. A couple of beds down was an elderly Spanish woman who was hearing imaginary voices. The Spanish nurse spent an hour consoling this woman, and her imaginary voices, in Spanish, while she ignored everyone else. An elderly, frail, white woman had the audacity to ask for her medication, which had been promised to her “immediately” (It had been two hours; she was still waiting.) The nurses called security. They said she was a threat. I heard the entire conversation. She didn’t threaten anybody. The only threat was that the nurses might be forced to do their jobs before they were darn good and ready. “I didn’t threaten anybody. I was just exercising my right to be treated like a human being. Patients bill of rights; ever hear of it?” Security left. The woman received her medication shortly thereafter. Reverse discrimination ran rampant in the emergency room. They were targeting elderly white women who dared to ask questions. If I had been able to move, I would have handed out my business cards. It was now approximately 7:30 a.m. My anti-seizure medication was an hour overdue. I still hadn’t been given the magic muscle relaxer that had been ordered several hours before. I suspected that the pharmacist was on an extended hiatus or simply not there. I had flashbacks of my inpatient stay. Stuff like this happened all the time. Darwin was long gone. The Spanish nurse was only dealing with the Spanish community; if your name wasn’t Hernandez or Lopez you were out of luck. I didn’t see anyone except a guy who muttered “No Speak English”. He brought me a container of mouthwash, a small tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. This would have been appreciated if I’d been able to move. I wasn’t given any water or anything to spit the toothpaste in. Oh, well. It would make a lovely parting gift if I was lucky enough to make it out of here. 8:30 a.m. Still no sign of anyone. I had the main telephone number to Mt. Sinai on my mobile phone. I dialed the number, and asked to be connected to the adult emergency room. It rang several times before a man picked up. “Emergency room.” “Hi. I’m here, in desperate need of a bedpan.” “What is your exact location?” “I’m wedged between the schizophrenic Spanish lady and the manic depressive woman from California. Near bed 11; I’m in the hall.” “I’ll send someone right away.” A half hour later, a man appeared with a giant bedpan the size of Texas. “I can’t use that.” “We don’t have anything smaller right now.” I am prone to “stage fright”; the inability to pee unless the circumstances are right. After an hour on the giant bedpan, I had to remove it. It had taken on a life of its own; it was starting to become part of my anatomy. I could feel an enormous, extremely painful dent forming on my ass. I had no alternative. I had to pee in my pull up panties. The attendant was very nice and put extra padding on my bed, to prepare for this added humiliation. 10:30 a.m. I finally got the magic pill. I still did not get my anti-seizure medication. Since August, I have been mistreated by a plethora of bad nurses. They were angels compared with the nurse that I was forced to deal with now. I will refer to her as Cruella DeVille. If there was a prize for worst nurse on the planet, Cruella would win it, hands down. “I need my anti-seizure medication. My neurologist will confirm this; it’s clearly indicated on my chart. Maybe if you read the patients’ charts occasionally, you might learn something.” “If you have a seizure,we’ll deal with it then. I am not allowed to give you medicine unless an emergency room doctor approves it. There is no such approval written in your emergency room chart.” WHAT THE HELL? I decided to scream; I was not about to take any more crap from this witch. “What happened?” The rotten nurses always ask this question, in a menacing tone that makes you feel like you must apologize for interrupting their perpetual coffee break. “I need my Keppra. I am not going to be quiet until I get it.” “You’re making the other patients think that we’re not taking care of you.” “If the shoe fits. . .I’m sure they’re already aware. You’re not taking care of them, either. I can hear them complaining; are you deaf?” I began to moan. 10:45 a.m. I get my Keppra anti-seizure medication. “Can I please have some water, or does someone have to approve it?” 11:30 a.m. The magic pill hasn’t worked. I’m still a human diving board. The side effects are working, though. Now I have a raging headache, accompanied by a full bladder which I cannot empty. I dialed the emergency room again. Cruella answered the phone, after it rang about one hundred times. “This is your favorite patient. Can I please have some Tylenol?” She hung up on me. I continued to call the emergency room. I hung up as soon as she answered. I repeated this procedure periodically for the remainder of my time at the emergency room. They couldn’t prove that it was me. I started to cry, loudly. I’ve perfected the art of crying at a volume that’s going to get things accomplished. I don’t like to do it, but if nothing else works, I won’t hesitate to pull out all the stops. It’s somewhere between many decibels and breaking the sound barrier. A female doctor walked by and asked Cruella why I was crying. I heard her inform the doctor that I’d requested Tylenol. Apparently the doctor was not happy with Cruella ignoring my request. I got my Tylenol, and I got her in trouble. Win, win. Good for me.

"Comedy Equals Tragedy, Plus Time"

Where the heck do I begin? “Comedy equals tragedy plus time.” Carol Burnett. . . Hello there! :) jhjkgkjgjhghjg this place stinks! The above was written from Village Care Rehab Center/Nursing Home. I am typing this with one hand because the other hand no longer works. Prior to August 20, 2011, I had the world by the balls. I was a lawyer. I genuinely cared about my clients. One of my bosses nicknamed me Norma Rae because I always stuck up for the underdog. I did a lot of pro bono work. That’s what I miss most from my days of practicing law; it felt fantastic to help so many people in need. I helped people who had been wrongfully accused of acts that they didn’t commit. I helped people fight for, and save, their jobs in a world filled with sexual harassment and a**hole supervisors. I represented whistleblowers who had the guts to say something was unsafe at their company. I helped people save their homes. I helped people buy their homes. I helped people adopt children. I counseled many abused women, and enabled them to leave life threatening situations. I represented many people who were innocent and injured. Every day I did battle with an insurance company, or a defense attorney. I had just received a thirty-thousand dollar raise. I had recently moved to my dream apartment on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Then my world collapsed. Little did I know at the time, that I was about to face the most challenging battle of my life.

To All of My Friends (Part 2)

To my Jewish friends: I hope you have (or had) an easy fast. To my non-Jewish friends who have (or had) another day off: Don't you just love the Jewish holidays?

Happy Monday

I, for once, have nothing to say. Except for that!

To All of My Friends

To my Jewish friends: Have a Healthy and Happy New Year! To the lucky folks who took the day off because of Rosh Hashana: Good For You! Enjoy the Day. To everyone else: Better luck next year!

Water, Water, Everywhere, But Not A Drop To Drink

Today I had no water. The fire department was here. They made the building clean out the enormous water tank, which apparently had reached unsafe levels. Now I have water, but it's coming out dark brown. So brown that it could easily be mistaken for coffee. Or worse. If I had an empty Starbucks cup, I'd fill it with the water and say it was their newest blend. I pity the fool that asks me to make coffee tonight. . .